


Bird Catcher

by greenfairy13



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bratty Oswald, Fluff and Humor, GCPD, M/M, Snowed In, Stoic Jim, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-26 09:50:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17743640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfairy13/pseuds/greenfairy13
Summary: Jim arrests Oswald. Thanks to a snowstorm they have to spend the night together at the precinct and Ozzie tries to be as annoying as possible.





	1. The Long Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justsimplymeagain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsimplymeagain/gifts).



> Just a fluffy attempt at humor written in the spirit of Valentines Day for the fantastic writer justsimplymeagain. I hope you enjoy!

This is going to be a very long night, Jim thinks, looking around the empty precinct. It’s already past midnight and with the snow-storm raging outside, only a few dim lights burning, and the ancient radio croaking out a Johnny Cash song, the detective feels like he could very well be on another planet.

The other cops are all at home. Even Harvey decided to spend a night like this rather in the safety of his own home than at the GCPD. Besides, nobody in their right would commit a crime tonight anyway. Which doesn’t mean Jim is alone at the department.

Heaving a sigh, Jim tentatively places another file on top of his never decreasing pile of workload. Rubbing his red-rimmed eyes, he looks over to the holding cells. He’s got a flightless, limping bird trapped in there.

The Penguin, infamous mob-boss, scowls viciously at the detective. His hands are clasped around the bars as he bares his teeth with a spiteful snarl. Oswald Cobblepot rather reminds Jim of a ghoul or a leprechaun than of those cute, waddling birds.

“Release me at once!” he hisses furiously when the detective ignores him.

Turning his attention back to his files and Johnny Cash, Jim tries getting some actual work done.  

“I’ve got rights!” the slim mobster growls, rattling at the bars to no avail.

Humming in agreement, Jim turns a page. He’s not going to rise to the bait or letting himself get dragged into an argument with the mobster. He’s got hardly any chance to win it anyway.

“This is frankly ridiculous!” Oswald carries on, working himself up to what will soon certainly be an impressive fit of rage. “You can’t lock me up just for carrying my cane around with me. I need it to _walk_.”

“Really?” Jim drawls, finally snapping. “You need a _sword_ hidden in a cane to walk properly? In a weapon-free zone? Opposite a kindergarten? I shouldn’t think so,” he finishes, hiding behind the folders again.

“Who in their right mind would walk the streets of Gotham unarmed let alone establish a weapon-free zone?! Besides I wasn’t using the blade, I was just _passing by_!”

“Oswald, considering your record I could have carted you off to Blackgate. Show some gratitude,” Jim growls. “Even your lawyer said 6 hours at the GCPD holding-cell are a goddamn present.”

“Six hours in your presence are anything but,” the mobster bites back, collapsing on the thin mattress. “Arresting me for such a bagatelle should be considered despotism.”

“Four hours and twenty-five minutes left, Penguin,” Jim answers sardonically. “Get some sleep. You look like you need a rest,” he adds mischievously.

“On top of your audacity, you expect me to get bitten by bedbugs! I am almost certain this sub third-world-country standard of the GCPD cells is a direct violation of the human rights convention.”

“Apologies.” Jim doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.

“Jim Gordon release me at once! I have places to be,” he shrieks, now completely losing his patience but the detective still won’t budge.

“No,” the other man retorts decidedly.

Clenching his fist, the criminal hits the wall. “James Gordon, I’m going to turn these four hours into the longest of your life!”

Giving the raging criminal a bored shrug, Jim dives back into his papers. “Challenge accepted,” he mutters disinterestedly and the man in the cell slumps against the wall.

As expected, Oswald’s defeat is a short-lived one. It doesn’t take long before the kingpin starts pacing his cell, dragging his bad leg behind for show, and eliciting small, high-pitched, and entirely false noises of pain.

In return, Jim simply turns up the volume on the radio forcing Oswald to change tactics. When the captured bird throws a glance over his shoulder at the detective, eyes blazing in three different shades of violet from fury, the detective can hardly suppress the amused chuckle about to escape his throat.

Jim might be reluctant to admit it, yet over the years he has become quite fond of the smart criminal. And despite everything he has done, the gangster’s skewed moral compass is not so very far off from his own anymore. Besides, Oswald has saved their city one or two times.

The Penguin is a contradiction. On the one hand, he’s the compassionate, adorable son of Gertrude Kapelput, on the other hand, one of Gotham’s most unpredictable and bloodthirsty kingpins. When Jim arrested him tonight, he had been on his way to take down another possible opponent.

It’s a sign of Gordon’s own crumbling integrity he hasn’t waited until he’d catch the Penguin red-handed.

So when the gangster opens his mouth again, Jim expects the worst. Bracing himself for a tirade, he ducks his head. Yet, Oswald does nothing Jim would have expected. Ever. Instead of going into some lecture, he simply starts  _singing_ along to the song on the radio. _Very_ loudly.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation Jim continues working. It’s not like Oswald would be bothering him. Quite the contrary - the criminal has an astonishingly beautiful voice. And so the entertainment programme carries on for some time until Oswald suddenly stops.

Jim blinks. Oswald glares.

The detective waits another five seconds before addressing the gangster. “Why did you stop?”

“Why didn’t you make me?” Oswald asks, raising his chin defiantly.

“I’m sorry. Was I supposed to?”

The mobster sucks in an outraged breath. “Well, you weren’t supposed to enjoy it.”

“Well, I did,” Jim retorts cheerfully. “You have quite a lovely voice,” he adds, throwing the gangster off guard. “You should rather go by _oscine_ ,” he adds, turning his back on him.

“You can’t just sit there and ignore me,” Oswald snaps back once he found his composure again.

“Can. Will. Doing.”

“I’m _cold_ ,” the criminal whines then and Jim seriously wonders if he caught a criminal tonight or some three-year-old.

“Then continue pacing. Do some yoga or one-legged knee bends. I frankly don’t care,” Jim hisses, starting to chew his pencil venomously.

“You can’t just lock me up and leave me to rot _again_! It’s freezing in here, I don’t have water and there’s neither a toilet. Once upon a time, you did believe criminals had rights, too!” Oswald screeches, gesturing for Jim to notice the miserable state of the cell.

It’s useless, Jim then decides. Getting up and walking towards the kitchen he heaves another sigh. It seems this night consists of a solid headache and heavy breathing. If he wants to get through this, he needs another cup of coffee. Or a well-aimed hit to the head.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

It’s not guilt, absolutely not, nor his bad conscience about Arkham. No, sir. Jim is just trying to be decent when walking into the locker room, searching for an old blanket he keeps around in case the never properly working GCPD heating system fails completely. It’s just an especially cold night, and if it helps Oswald to shut up for at least five minutes, it’s worth it.

“Here,” he says gruffly once he’s back, shoving the attrited grey thing through the bars.

Oswald takes the blanket from his hands with an expression of disgust written all over his face, careful not to touch an ounce of the detective’s skin.

“When was the last time this germ-infested piece of fabric saw the inside of a washing machine?” he demands to know, picking it up with disdain.

“Probably October,” Jim retorts. “Haven’t used it since.”

“You use the inmates' blankets?” Oswald asks skeptically, cocking his head slightly. And doesn’t that small gesture truly make him look like a bird?

The detective snorts. “No. That’s my own. I keep it here in case the heating is broken,” he elaborates, walking back to his desk again.

Jim’s plan had been working as the gangster is truly speechless for the following minutes. It suits him - just standing there and looking nice in his three-piece suits, gaping like the songbird he is. But eventually, the petulant criminal expresses another wish.

When the detective rises from him his seat to finally get that cup of coffee, Oswald cranes his scrawny neck.

“Jim?” the little tyrant starts tentatively.

“Yes, Oswald?” the detective answers, inwardly slowly counting to ten.

“I’m thirsty.”

Of course, he is.

“There’s water in the cell.”

“The tap isn’t working.”

Cursing under his breath,  Jim storms off into the kitchen. Oh yes, this night is going to be a long one.


	2. How To Handle A Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's night continues to be a very long one. And he reveals some of his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said two chapters but now there will be three. I am sorry! Please let me know if you like what you're reading.

“How long does it actually take you to get me a glass of water?” 

Oswald’s irate voice echoes through the precinct and Jim wonders if there are any sleeping pills he can mix into the gangster’s water. The detective abandons his morally questionable thought and continues preparing his coffee while heating some water. He opens the fridge, finding the remains of his lunch. 

The Chinese take-out wasn’t good when he bought it in the first place and he doubts a few hours at the GCPD improved it. But there’s nothing else to eat anyway, so Jim puts the box into the microwave, setting the timer to two minutes. He pours hot water into a cup, adds a tea bag, two heaped spoons of sugar and some milk. Chances are good Oswald won’t like that positively ancient Earl Grey but alas….Beggars can’t be choosers.

The microwave dings and Jim takes out two plates, starting to portion the noodles. Meanwhile, his mobster makes more sounds of distress and Jim contemplates gagging the unruly gangster with his tie. 

He won’t, though. Jim has no intention to hurt the mobster sitting in his cell - quite the contrary in fact. 

It’s no coincidence Jim arrested the Penguin today of all days. And if he’d be an honest cop, which he hasn’t been in a long time, he’d take him to Blackgate and throw away the keys. Despite all his flaws, Jim Gordon is a good detective. He always excelled at connecting these dots and lines pointing at the culprit and if he’d really try, he could arrest the Penguin for at least half a dozen crimes right now. And he isn’t talking about things like him walking around in broad daylight with a switchblade. 

But Jim hasn’t been honest to himself or about himself in a very long time. He can keep telling himself Oswald is under arrest simply to protect the man the gangster planned to murder tonight but the harsh truth is…

“Jim, I’m filing a complaint about being the victim of police brutality first thing tomorrow morning!” the gangster hollers and the detective rolls his eyes. He’s truly way too tired for spending the night with a capricious crime-lord. 

Huffing, he places the plates, two forks, a glass of water, his coffee, and the tea on a tray and makes his way back to his nonstop chirping bird. He stops at his desk, puts down his coffee and his own plate, and walks over to Oswald. 

Wordlessly, he opens the small flap allowing the guards to hand a prisoner some goods without actually releasing them from their cell, pushing the tray into the criminal’s hands. Too startled to actually protest, Oswald takes it. 

“There,” Jim growls, voice hostile as the gangster sniffs his food and drinks warily.

“What’s this?” he finally asks. 

“Noodles. Tea. Water,” Jim answers curtly, retreating to the safety of his desk and taking a sip of his coffee. 

Hesitantly, Oswald takes a sip from his tea, promptly pulling a face. The detective already regrets not spiking his drink. 

“What is this atrocity?” he demands to know and Jim sighs for the hundredth time this night.

“Tea,” he answers quietly. “Black. Two sugars and some milk.”

For the smallest moment, Oswald looks positively surprised before haughtily passing his judgment: “ _ This  _ is definitely not tea.” 

The detective shrugs. Nobody at the precinct drinks tea. He should consider himself lucky Jim found what he found. The snooty varmint takes another thoughtful sip, for sure contemplating how to insult him further. 

“I stopped adding sugar three weeks ago,” Oswald shares then, raising an eyebrow. “It’s healthier,” he adds. “Detective Gordon, are you trying to give me diabetes?” he asks mockingly. 

The detective snorts. “Yes, that was my evil plan. Giving you a disease that will kill you in about fifty years. I am sure those two sugars make all the difference,” he drawls sarcastically.  

At last, Oswald finally decides to just eat and drink in silence. If he’s uncomfortable with Jim watching him, he doesn’t let on. Maybe he can fathom why he’s really here tonight. Maybe not. The detective would be much more comfortable with Oswald not being aware of his true motives anyway. 

But is Oswald really that oblivious? He knows what a good detective Jim is, and probably suspects there’s something more to him being locked up. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be such an obnoxious brat, right? 

Superficially considered, Jim arrested the Penguin tonight in order to save a man Oswald mistook for a traitor. But to a man of the law,  _ knowing _ makes all the difference. Jim could have waited. Could have arrested him for attempted murder and the Penguin would be gone from Gotham for good. 

He could have done nothing at all, too. Could have left Oswald to his fate, allowing him to murder yet another person and get hunted down in return. 

Jim can’t do that. Never could. Sure, he left him behind before, left him to rot in Arkham twice for selfish reasons but that was different. Oswald maneuvered himself into this mess all on his own when confessing to murders he never committed in the first place. And sure, he tried everything in his power to make the criminal’s life as difficult as possible, but on the other hand, he’d catch a bullet for him every day. 

Jim cares about Oswald, truly does, and he can tell himself all he wants it’s only because of the Penguin making Gotham safer - despite his questionable methods, of course - but that’s only half the truth. Oswald must never know what he really means to him, that he truly considers him his faithful friend in the dark. 

Therefore, Jim is being deliberately rude, impolite and gruff. And maybe Oswald will never figure out how Jim feels about him. 

The detective leans back in his chair, tiredness finally overtaking him. It’s been three days since he slept in a real bed, in his own apartment, and not only nodded off for a couple of minutes at his desk. Drinking his coffee brings no relief whatsoever. Hell, he could attach the brewing directly to his veins and it wouldn’t make a damn difference. 

“Sleeping on duty?” Oswald’s mocking voice drifts over. “A fine detective you are,” he taunts, forcing Jim to pull himself together once more.  “But then you are playing fast and loose with the rules anyway tonight,” he mocks. “I don’t think you are supposed to give inmates plates and forks, aren’t you, detective? What if I hurt myself with the shards? Or attack you with the fork, eh?” The gangster bites his lip, suppressing an evil cackle.

But Jim is too tired already. He can only take so much teasing before losing his patience, and in his mind, he can already see himself grabbing Oswald’s lapels and shaking him like a rag doll until he shuts up. Yet, what difference would that make? Not even with the Tetch Virus cursing through his veins, he could bring himself to truly hurt Oswald. 

“Are you threatening an officer?” he rumbles gravelly. 

“What if I was?” Oswald snaps back, sticking up his nose with a little sniff. 

“Two more hours in the holding cell then,” Jim growls, putting his head on a folder and closing his eyes. He prays for sleep to take him before…

“Oh, but you can't!” Oswald shrieks in a high pitched voice, the sound ringing painfully in Jim's ears. 

“You should thank me for not pressing charges,” the cop bites back. 

“Please! I have urgent business matters to attend to.”

“I know what these matters are, Oswald,” he snaps angrily. 

“If you really knew, if you had any evidence, I wouldn't be trapped in here for carrying a stupid cane,” the gangster screams, throwing his plate at the wall.

“Oswald…” Jim's voice is low and threatening as he holds up his hand. Naturally, the mobster won't stop. 

“You don't even like my company, Jim. Why on earth would you tie yourself to me for two more hours?” he roars incredulously. “What is this pathetic power play good for? Are you getting off on seeing me behind bars? Is your life so miserable you can't stop harassing me for one day? Tell me, Jim! Why make me stay here in the first place? Why two more hours?” Panting heavily, he steps closer. White-knuckled fists grab the bars so tightly it’s painful to watch. 

“Because these are two more hours in which I know you are safe!” Jim finally blurts out, sucking in an outraged breath. Sleep has left him entirely now that he’s practically vibrating from frustration. 

Oswald works his jaw, unsure how to respond to Jim's confession. He finally opens his mouth but the detective has had enough. 

“Whatever it is, I'm not interested. Shut up and drink your water,” he commands in a voice leaving no room for further negotiations. “And in the morning, you can be on your merry way out. Until then, the only thing I want to hear from you is steady breathing.”

With that, Jim dives back under his files and finally gets some work done. He writes a report, marveling at the blissful silence and is nearly finished when his trapped bird clears his throat. Twice. 

“Jim,” he calls out, sounding pretty insecure and maybe a tad bit desperate. 

Curiously, the detective raises his head. Oswald is seated on the edge of the wooden bench in his cell, legs crossed and slumped forward. He looks beyond tense. 

Well, the food wasn't great but not so bad it would bring on such agony. Frowning, Jim nods towards his prisoner, allowing him to speak. 

“Jim,” he starts tentatively. “It seems to bring me water AND tea was a bit too generous of you,” he explains with a lopsided grin. 

Blushing furiously he reveals, “I really need to use the loo.” Oswald then shifts on his bench, the small movement eliciting a distressed whimper from the gangster.

Groaning, Jim buries his head in his hands, already reaching for the key.

 


	3. Bird Set Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim gets bitten and kissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for those encouraging comments! I'm terrified I'll disappoint you :/. Ehm...enjoy, I hope *prays and hits the post button*

Taking Oswald’s elbow gingerly, Jim leads him through the hopelessly labyrinthine corridors of the GCPD. Due to the mobster's disability, he refrains from restraining him in any further fashion. He keeps his pace deliberately slow, cautious not to overexert the criminal limping beside him.

“Aren't you supposed to handcuff me?” Oswald asks as if reading his mind, lips curling into a devilish grin. It's the first mistake the Penguin makes tonight and Jim leaps at his chance.

“Are you asking me to handcuff you and to open your pants?” the detective quips, inwardly rejoicing when Oswald’s cheeks turn crimson in return.

“That's not… I….I mean.., “ he sputters indignantly while Jim bites the inside of his cheek, trying to suppress an amused giggle as he witnesses the criminal squirming in embarrassment.

“There we are,” he announces, swinging the door to the lavatory open while simultaneously plastering his eyes to a spot at the ceiling, attempting to preserve Oswald’s modesty. “Let it all out,” he adds sarcastically.

“Uh,” the mobster retorts eloquently.

“Something wrong, Oswald?” Jim demands to know. “Do the GCPD toilets not meet your sophisticated standards?” he deadpans while studying a water stain with great interest.

“Are you going to stay here?” Oswald squeaks. Another flush spreads all over his face, highlighting his adorable freckles. Eyes cast down bashfully, Oswald fidgets with the signet-ring at his right hand, clearly unable to move on to the button at his pants.

The hard-boiled criminal is leaning against the wall for support, bad leg crossed over his good one, trembling from the effort of holding back much longer.

The criminal whimpers again as he lifts his leg slightly towards his chest and Jim has to admit he’s thoroughly enjoying Oswald’s misfortune considering the night he had.

Finally taking pity, Jim turns around. “But don’t you dare to rip off a handle and smacking it over my head,” he growls while wondering if he lost all common sense. 

Oswald tugs at Jim’s sleeve. “Ehm, Jim,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, what is it now, Oswald?!” At this point, the failed jailor can hardly keep himself from screaming out loud - or throttling the scrawny gangster with his bare hands.

“I can't... You know.. With an audience,” the mobster states, chewing his lip nervously and Jim has had enough. 

“Are you kidding me!? Only seconds ago, you were practically bursting and now you can't pee with my back turned to you?” If the criminal set out to give Jim a stroke, congratulations, he's doing an outstanding job.

“I’m only asking for a bit of privacy, please?” 

“Oswald I swear if this is a ruse to get out of here…” The detective makes sure the gangster notes how his fists clench.

“Jim,” he huffs. “You should know better than anyone else that I can't climb out of a window without _someone_ lending me a hand. Besides, I have a very shy bladder so if you don’t want me to suffer serious kidney damage, I’d suggest you leave at once,” Oswald hisses menacingly enough for the cop to relent.

“Fine. Whatever,” Jim grumbles, quickly turning on his heel. God help him, he's not willing to discuss the inner workings of the King of Gotham’s bladder, ever. Smashing the door shut, he flees the room, allowing Oswald to have a heartfelt pee.

“Are you standing in front of the door?” He hears Oswald crying from inside. “If so, please, move a bit. I can't with you standing in front of the door either.” 

“You don't even _know_ where I'm standing,” Jim yells back, yet dutifully takes a step to the side. He meanwhile considers moving to India if it helps Oswald finishing his business.

“How do you manage to use the toilet in your club by the way?” the detective inquires curiously, his mind already conjuring the very disconcerting picture of a hired muscle beating anyone up who dares coming near the restroom. 

“Private toilet,” the half-heartedly detained man hollers back. “And now, please. For the sake of everything that is good and holy, stop talking and move away from the door!”

Jim is itching to continue their conversation just so he can prolong his much overdue revenge when hearing the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Adrenaline rushes instantly through his veins, sending his senses into overdrive. 

Stomping down the panic that threatens to overwhelm him, he rushes into the lavatory. Whoever has come to the precinct in the middle snowstorm _must_ be after Oswald. And Jim is pretty sure whoever it is won’t take hostages.

The mobster is just tucking himself back in when the detective clasps his mouth shut, the movement fast as lightning. He can’t even squeak before Jim starts dragging him into the last stall.  

Oswald stumbles in his surprise, nearly sending them both crashing to the ground when his slipping pants get tangled between his bony ankles. Biting down on the hand over his mouth on reflex, he forces Jim to suppress a pained cry.

Grabbing the hem of the offending garment, the cop pulls Oswald’ pants back up unceremoniously while simultaneously hauling him into the stall. 

“We got company,” he whispers while waiting for the criminal’s labored breathing to slow down again. Only when the criminal removes his pointed teeth from Jim’s hand, he releases him. Wincing, he examines the damage done to him. The outline of the small leprechaun’s teeth are clearly visible but thankfully he didn’t bite him forcefully enough to draw blood.

“Who knows you are here?” Jim urges, already drawing his gun and Oswald’s eyes widen almost comically. He’s looking from the gun at Jim’s face and back, obviously too confused to respond. Blushing furiously, he gulps.

Just then Jim realizes he’s caging his fragile captive with his body, still holding tightly onto his hip and standing so close they’re practically sharing each others breath. The detective has to admit - it’s nice. More than nice.

Holding the slim form of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot in his arms, shielding him from the dangers of the world, feeling the warmth of his body, feels simply _overwhelmingly_ right.

And it would be so easy to just lean in, only one tiny inch closer, and protect him with his whole body and maybe taste that hypnotic cologne emanating from his skin. The criminal’s eyes zero in on his mouth and Jim almost licks his lips, almost loses control and almost closes that remaining gap.

Maybe later.

Straightening out his suit, Jim shoves his second gun into Oswald’s hand. “There,” he mutters, voice slightly strained. “Oswald, I know somebody is trying to kill you. Who knows you’re here?” he repeats, snapping his fingers into the gangster’s face when he won’t stop ogling him dazedly.

“Nobody. My, my lawyer,” he stammers out, finally pulling himself together.

Jim nods. Scooting a hand through his hair, he tries remembering how many footsteps he heard on the hallway.

“Stay here,” he commands, cautiously making his way back to the corridor.

When opening the door, everything happens quite fast. The blow comes hard, yet not unexpected and then Jim is rolling around on the floor - like almost every other day of the week in his life - giving and receiving a few punches. The intruder is almost defeated when Oswald emerges from the lavatory, giving him a good smack over the head with the gun and a kick to the guts for good measure.

Rubbing his jaw, Jim sits up. “I had it under control,” he laments angrily while looking up into the gangster’s emerald eyes, silently wondering why he chose to help him instead of, well, just leaving him behind. It’s a miracle in itself Oswald decides time and time again to save a cop, of all people.

“I’m sure you did,” Oswald responds, smirking smugly and extending a hand to help him back up. Unthinking, he takes it, lacing their fingers together. For the longest moment, he just stands there, enjoying the comforting feeling of skin against skin and the soft press of his digits against his pulse point.

Relief washes over him when processing that Oswald is safe for another day, maybe another week. He doesn’t have to arrest him, can free him now and start praying again he’ll last just a bit longer in this hellhole that is Gotham.

He releases him as if he’d been bitten again when the urge to pull him close threatens to overpower him.

Muttering angrily, the detective starts dragging the unconscious man towards the holding cell, ignoring the hurt look in Oswald’s eyes.

“I take it, this guy here is not your lawyer?” Jim grunts.

“No. But I know him. He’s his bodyguard,” he answers matter of factly, voice stripped from any emotion.

Panting heavily, the detective hoists the man into the cell and locks the door. “I’m going to arrest your lawyer first thing tomorrow morning,” he announces, once again hiding cowardly behind his desk. “And don’t make me go diving for him in the Gotham river. I hate diving,” he adds sternly, already opening a folder.

“And me?” Oswald wants to know.

“You’re free to leave. That’s what you wanted anyway,” he tells him dismissively, burying his nose deeper into the report.

Obviously, not only his patience has been wearing thin tonight. The mobster elicits a curt snarl before ripping the folder from his hands without warning.

“I’m sick of you, Jim Gordon!” he explodes, sending papers flying everywhere. “Do you think I’m stupid? You’ve been keeping me here all night long under the pretense of me carrying a weapon in a weapon-free-zone when knowing all along somebody was trying to kill me! Did you use me as bait? Did you try to protect me? What was this night about?” he rages on, eyebrows drawn together in clear fury.

“You did carry a weapon, though,” Jim justifies lamely.

“Imbecility!” the gangster howls. “You must have known full well I had been on my way to a traitor. You must have known full well it was the wrong man and you set up this trap, is that about right? And now tell me, why go through all of that if…”

Rising from his seat, Jim finally figures out how to shut the quarrelsome crime-lord off. Grabbing his lapels, he pulls him close. Sneaking his tongue past the ever-bickering organ belonging to his favorite criminal, he waits for Oswald to melt into his kiss and to surrender for once.

Except, it never happens. Eyes going wide, he pushes Jim away and the detective almost panics.

“You could have arrested me for attempted murder. If you had just waited…” his voice trails off, awe-stricken at the realization.

“I could have,” Jim admits quietly, not meeting his eyes. “Contrary to your assumption, I don’t actually get off on seeing you behind bars. So, well...uh...you’re free to go?” he offers cautiously.

Before he has a chance of retreating behind his desk again, Oswald raises to his full height and holding tightly onto Jim for leverage, he presses a chaste kiss onto his mouth. Not wasting any time, the detective encircles his waist. When the gangster tilts his head, Jim cradles that precious little head and deepens the kiss, eliciting a little moan in the process. And isn’t that the most beautiful sound he ever heard?

It seems like, Jim doesn’t want his gangster to shut up after all.


End file.
